"Forgetful," I answered, somewhat testily. "Then why couldn't ta' say so?" said Jim. "Tha owt to ha' bin a parson after all, an' a gooid weaver spoiled." I disdained retort and went on: "He was only a littlish man, very thin, shockingly thin, all skin and bone, and his clothes simply hung on him. They were threadbare and much patched, but of good cut and material--West of England broadcloth, if I'm a judge." "Which you aren't," put in Jim. "His hair was white as snow, and his face well, I don't wonder that Mary thought she'd seen a corpse. Yet though the frame was worn and bent, and the hair so bleached, the face did not seem that of an old man. Not fifty. It was deathly pale and waxen. Scarce a wrinkle seamed his brow, but in his sunken eyes there dwelt a look of woe unutterable. 'A man of sorrow, and acquainted with grief.' The old words came to my mind as I looked on those worn, wan features. 'Have you far to journey?' he asked me suddenly. 'To Pole Moor in Scammonden, sir,' I told him. 'My father is minister there Mr. Holmes. You'll have heard of him, the Reverend Mr. Holmes,' I added, with just pride." "Aw should think so, indeed"--Mary again. "'Nay I have little acquaintance in this neighbourhood,' the man answered. 'But you will need food before you reach home. I have little to tempt you.' But I made haste to assure him I wanted nothing to eat. To tell the truth I didn't just relish sitting down to table with this strange creature--he looked so other worldish, and I didn't know him then as I have come to know him since--aye, and to like him, too. I suppose he must have seen me look enquiringly at the Greek Testament, for he handed it to me and asked me to read him a few verses But I hadn't stumbled over many lines before he stopped me. 'This is how it should go,' he said. And then he reeled it off, as if it had been plain English I thought my father could read Greek but he reads it but haltingly where Mr. Turner comes." "As tak' leave to doubt, that," said Mary with conviction. "But by now the storm had cleared, and I anxious to be on my way, for it's no joke being on Stanedge off the beaten track in the dark, or even in the dusk. So I thanked my host for the shelter he had afforded me, and, timidly, and with little hopes of success, begged that on other days, as I passed his cottage, homeward bent, I might call and pay my respects. He gave, as I thought, but a grudging assent, but assent after a fashion he did. And that's how I came to know Mr. Turner, but who he is and what he is, and how a man of cultured refinement, for any fool can see he's that, came to live all alone in that wretched hovel, for it's little better, beats me."